


the wolf may file down his teeth and claws, but the sheep will never trust him

by Polyhexian



Series: Live Every Day Like Your Mom Said it Was Alright [8]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Rescue Bots Academy (Cartoon)
Genre: Cybertron timeline, Depression, Multi, POV Third Person, Polyamory, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, im sorry ive been reading eugenesis lately again and its tainted me, some REALLY deep cut idw references im sorry, this is one of those fics that will probably make you pull up tfwiki, this is self indulgent drama
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22352959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyhexian/pseuds/Polyhexian
Summary: It started quietly, as things often did, for Whirl. He had an unwavering reputation for what appeared to be wholly unprovoked violence, over the top reactions, for yelling, and screaming, and throwing things, but any psychotherapist worth his weight in scrap (and Whirl had only ever had one) would have immediately seen through the veneer of suddenness, and known the truth: Whirl was uniquely talented at packing up and boxing away distress, anger, grief, and all manner of unpleasantness, shoving it into the fringe corners of his awareness, until there was simply no more space for any kinds of feelings at all, and everything would erupt in an explosion of expression, experiencing everything at once, indulging in that most indulgent of emotions: anger.
Relationships: Cyclonus/Tailgate (Transformers), Cyclonus/Tailgate/Whirl (Transformers), Cyclonus/Whirl (Transformers), Tailgate/Whirl
Series: Live Every Day Like Your Mom Said it Was Alright [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1596922
Comments: 10
Kudos: 132





	the wolf may file down his teeth and claws, but the sheep will never trust him

“Haha! I’ve got it!” Whirl laughed maniacally, as he practically ripped the front door off the hinges, “Aw, slag, hang on.” He paused in whatever dramatics he was attempting to put on to shut the door more gently and shove the hinge back into place. Cyclonus leaned out of the library door and Tailgate turned off the vacuum.

“Well?” asked Tailgate, setting the vacuum against the wall, “What have you got?”

“I’ve _got-_ ” Whirl announced, beaming as he spun back into the room and held a shanix card aloft, as if it were a trophy, “The _rent!_ ”

“The what?” Cyclonus deadpanned.

“The _rent!_ ” Whirl repeated, as if it were obvious, shaking the shanix card above his head, “That job with Heinrad worked out, he couldn’t fix an ol’ Rhyxian style Pax era timepiece, the kind with the, uh, the fraggin’ glass inset? He’d never seen one of them things before, but I remembered workin’ on one a trillion years ago, damn things are right rare as the pit, you know, real fancy oldschool Prime level prices on them things, but like-”

“So, you fixed it?” Tailgate interjected.

“I mean, hey, the torsional pendulum ain’t made of pax metallica anymore, but, damn things tickin’ again, I’ll say.”

“That’s great!” Tailgate clasped his servos together, “I’m glad it worked!”

“ _And_ ,” said Whirl, leaning back and fanning himself with the Shanix card, “I got a right pretty _commission_.”

“You know you do not owe us anything,” Cyclonus commented, “You aren’t a renter.”

“Come on, Cyc-cyc, let me stop eating through your charity for two seconds, willya?” Whirl scoffed, “I am a _pro_ at self sufficiency in this moment and I’m gonna fraggin’ eat it for dinner.”

Cyclonus rolled his optics, but relented, taking the shanix card. “I would never dream of begrudging you that. We should invite Heinrad for dinner sometime, you’ve been spending a lot of time in his shop, and I still haven’t met him.”

“Ah, he’s an ol’ slagger, you know the type,” Whirl said, waving a claw dismissively. Cyclonus did not know the type, but didn’t say so.

* * *

"What are you painting?" Cyclonus asked, and Whirl turned, startled, having not heard him and Tailgate, sitting on his shoulders, approach.

"Huh? Oh, uh," he turned back, looking at his canvas, a mess of colour and shape that betrayed nothing of its intended contents, "It's like. The Senate floor. With like, energon on it, or whatever." He seemed embarrassed.

"It's nice," Cyclonus said, though it wasn't, "Very much a statement."

"Yeah," said Whirl, staring at it.

"I like the colours," Tailgate added, helpfully, "Is that Optimus?"

"Orion," Whirl corrected absently, twirling his brush in one claw, "You know, after I beat the shit out of Megatron, he threw me in a cell and I kept thinking it was the best day of my life."

"What?" Asked Cyclonus, confused by the apparent nonsequitur. 

"Yeah, cuz like, hey, I was done! No more "friends" in high places telling me to do shit. I was finally gonna be a liability and maybe I could piss off without them caring whenever my sentence ended. And then fucking Kroma showed his ugly faceplate."

"Kroma…" mumbled Tailgate, "Why do I know that name?"

"Cuz his dumbaft thought, after he dragged me out of there, killed Springarm and Wheelarch and tried to kill my boss, that we were still cool!" Whirl laughed, harshly, meanly, "and when he got thrown in the slammer right after me, he told me about that fragging bomb in Nominus's brain. He figured it was water under the bridge, no big slagging deal! Moron," he hissed, grabbing the canvas and throwing it into the discard pile, grabbing a new one. Cyclonus frowned.

"I'm sorry for bringing up something so upsetting."

"Don't be sorry for nothin'," Whirl muttered, "I tracked Kroma down his dumbaft hideout in Petrohex and killed his aft before Optimus even saw the Matrix." 

* * *

"You know, you're real weird," Whirl observed, gesturing at the bartender with one claw. Waspinator tilted his head at him, both directions, fluttering his wings behind him.

"Izz there follow-up to that statement?" Asked Waspinator after a moment, "Izz incomplete thought."

"Mostly just an observation," said Whirl, draining his glass, "kinda figured this joint woulda end up in the servos of somebody I knew." 

"Everyone know Wazzpinator," commented Waspinator.

"Hey Waspinator!" Yelled someone as they opened the door and walked in, conveniently.

"Yeah, that's weird, too, honestly," said Whirl, "anyway, hit me again, doc."

"Yezzir!" Said Waspinator, grabbing a glass from below the bar and giving it a showy little spin in his claws. It slipped and crashed to the ground, shattering. Waspinator grabbed a second one without acknowledging the first, successfully completed the twirl, and turned to fill it from the tap.

* * *

Whirl brushed the soft petal of the flower as gently as he could with the tip of one claw, afraid to break it if he tried to pick up the pot. He knew Tailgate had had his eye on adding some more oranges or reds into his front garden for awhile, and this one was so pretty, but Whirl knew next to nothing about plants. 

"Is it, uh, does it do good with other plants?" He asked, lamely. The clerk gave him a look that read "I've never been paid enough in my life to talk to you."

"Yeah. It's a plant."

"Uh, it's an outdoor plant, yeah? Like, lots of sun, good?"

"Yup," said the clerk, "outdoor plant."

"Uh," said Whirl, looking back at the plant and tapping his claws together anxiously before picking it up by the pot as gingerly as he could, "Okay, I'll take it."

The entire ride home was terrifying. Whirl felt like he was holding in a vent the entire time, terrified the pot would just explode in his claws at any moment, but it didn't.

He set it ever so delicately on the table, next to the book he'd gotten Cyclonus. It had been a little more difficult to track down than the plant, though easier to carry. It was an old hymn book, the pre war kind, not even on a datapad. Whirl had checked his library before he traded a clock for it, to make sure he didn't already have it. 

He tucked the two items neatly beside each other on the kitchen table, briefly considered writing a note, then chickened out. Eventually he just settled for scribbling "happy anniversary losers" in his very best (nearly illegible) handwriting and then absolutely booking it outside as fast as mechanically possible to go flying because he absolutely could not handle being here for this at all. Nope. No way. Too sappy.

He was doing cartwheels over the ocean when he got Tailgate's ping, always the first home.

"Whirl!" He cried into his commline, "It's beautiful! Where are you, where did you go!"

“I dunno what you’re talking about!” Whirl said, doing a barrel roll to let the wind pull away the heat of embarrassment in his frame, “I’m just doin sick stunts outside.”

“Whirl, you dummy,” laughed Tailgate, “Come back home so I can kiss you, already.”

* * *

"Alright, bartender, do your worst," said Whirl, sitting down with a thump on his favourite chair. 

"Whirl izz here!" Waspinator cheered, turning and clapping as Whirl leaned onto the bar, "yezz, yezz, give Wazzpinator two klikzz, worzzt will be done!" He immediately threw himself beneath the bar, digging through boxes and throwing things wildly behind him.

"What are you so excited about?" asked Sandstorm, sitting four seats down and sipping nightmare fuel through a curly straw at four in the afternoon, "It's just _Whirl_."

"Whirl izz zzpecial, friend with very difficult name," said Waspinator, reemerging with a bottle that glowed neon green and bubbled ominously, even while corked, "Whirl will drink anything."

"It's true," Whirl quipped, "his weird experiments are on the house, my favourite."

"Even if they poison you?" Sandstorm deadpanned, idly taking a sip from his glass.

"Hey, I mean, either they're good, or I die, so like, win-win, amiright?" Said Whirl, plucking a curly straw he was offered from Waspinator's claws.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're a profoundly depressing person to talk to?" Sandstorm asked flatly.

"Aren't you like a serial killer or somethin'?" Whirl asked, squinting at him.

"I mean, technically, I guess," said Sandstorm, taking another sip.

"Zztop talking about death in Wazzpinator bar," snapped Waspinator, pouring a glass of the green ooze and pushing it toward Whirl, who dropped his straw into it.

"Hang on," said Sandstorm, pulling out his straw and chugging the last of his drink, "hit me with one of those, I'm down for a round of rustin' roulette."

* * *

It started quietly, as things often did, for Whirl. He had an unwavering reputation for what appeared to be wholly unprovoked violence, over the top reactions, for yelling, and screaming, and throwing things, but any psychotherapist worth his weight in scrap (and Whirl had only ever had one) would have immediately seen through the veneer of suddenness, and known the truth: Whirl was uniquely talented at packing up and boxing away distress, anger, grief, and all manner of unpleasantness, shoving it into the fringe corners of his awareness, until there was simply no more space for any kinds of feelings at all, and everything would erupt in an explosion of expression, experiencing everything at once, indulging in that most indulgent of emotions: anger.

It stood to reason that, as his life calmed down, as fewer external traumas gave him baggage to fill up his increasingly open emotional spaces, longer and longer interludes would go between outbursts. This would lead many to assume progress had been made, when it may not necessarily have been. It made it exceedingly easy to think Whirl was doing well, when in reality, he most definitely was not.

He lay awake, listening to the bots behind him and trying to pretend he was still asleep. If it had been Tailgate waking up after a nightmare, he might have handled it better. Tailgate wore his spark on his sleeve, so to speak, and never hid his emotions, even when he wanted to. But it wasn't Tailgate. It was Cyclonus.

He woke gasping something about the dead universe and Galvatron and Whirl had no idea what any of it meant, but by Primus, Tailgate sure did. Did you have the dream again, he asked, the one with Scourge? The words sounded so practiced. They'd been spoken before. 

Whirl stayed as still as he could and willed himself to vanish, to become a part of the furniture, to cease existing, because he had no idea what to do but clearly, the little bot laying between them _did_ , a stark reminder that they had been together for ages now, while he had been wasting away, usually in jail. They could practically read each other's thoughts with how well in sync they were- it wasn't like when they were on the Lost Light, and they were all on the same page. The status quo could never be returned to; it had been fundamentally altered.

He felt like a guest, a stranger, an uninvited disruption to a smooth cadence as Tailgate soothed behind him and Cyclonus babbled and he held his ventilations, still and silent, lost in thought.

* * *

"Y'know, it's so weird, cuz back in the day, the lovebirds could barely communicate with each other like normal people, and they had to go through me, pretty much every time, and so I was like super involved, y'know? And now I'm like, aw, slag, they're communicating like, so much, basically all the time, and I feel so out of the loop! It's like they can just read each other's minds sometimes!" Whirl emphasized this thought by waving his claws and tapping his helm, frustrated. The bar carried on around him, loud and busy.

"Wazzpinator think Whirl zzhould talk to partnerzz about feelingzz," Waspinator commented as he shook a mixer and poured it into a glass over a pile of rock ice.

"Now, you would say that, cuz that's the logical answer," said Whirl, tapping his claw on the bar, "but how the frag do you even broach that slag? How do you say uhhhh hey guys I'm kind of feeling left out cuz y'all have been married for ages and live in each other's processors and sometimes I feel like I don't belong here whoops."

"Zzay that," said Waspinator, dropping a tiny umbrella into his concoction, "Wazzpinator think Whirl izz overthinking it."

"I know I'm overthinking it!" Whirl exclaimed, throwing his claws up, "I keep saying to myself, okay, Whirl, buddy, pal, you've been workin real good on some issues these past few decades, and you know what you're doing. You can see it. You can see yourself overthinking it and being a slaghead, turning nothin' into somethin'. But like, I'm still doing it, you know? What's up with that!"

"Wazzpinator not pzzycologist, but Wazzpinator think Whirl hazz trauma," said Waspinator as he handed the drink to Warwolf, standing up on his hind legs to lean on the bar and started on another one.

"Well, duh, I know that," Whirl handwaved, "but how do I just like, _stop_ doing dumb slag like this?? Hey, give me another, by the way."

"Wazzpinator think Whirl drink too much. Wazzpinator cutting you off for night."

"Frag off," said Whirl, annoyed, "You only think that because I'm a sad drunk."

"Primus have mercy," Sandstorm swore, picking his head up from the bar, "you are the saddest drunk I know. Stop talking about your relationship and go home and do something about it, I literally cannot listen to you mope anymore."

"You know, Sandy, you could just move to a different seat," said Whirl, draining the very last drops of his drink with a straw, since he wasn't going to be getting a new one, "Someone might think you were doing it on purpose."

"I'm literally only sitting here because you're one of like three living Wreckers," Sandstorm said dryly, "And Sparkstalker is here doing karaoke with Lightbright and I don't wanna get shot."

"What makes you think I'd have your back if you got shot?" Whirl snorted.

"You like me more than Sparkstalker, and you like fighting more than me."

"For your information, I am on a strict no fighting diet," said Whirl, "No punching for this machine, no sir. So don't let anybody shoot your dumbaft because I'm not going to help you."

"Wazzpinator keep telling you two, zztop talking about death in Wazzpinator bar!"

* * *

"Nuh," whined Whirl as the alarm went off, hugging Tailgate tighter like a beloved stuffed animal.

"Ack," said Tailgate, roused suddenly as Whirl squeezed him.

"Sorry, my sparks, but duty calls," Cyclonus soothed as he stretched and rose from the berth, "Books don't shelve themselves, you know." 

“They oughta,” Whirl mumbled, “or they oughta learn to wait ‘til the sun’s up, at least.”

“I’ll tell the books you said hello,” Cyclonus said primly, patting Whirl on the winglet before he left the room.

“Mmph,” Whirl hummed, shifting his weight and readjusting the way he was hugging Tailgate against his stomach beneath his cockpit, “Damn books.”

“You know you’re still allowed to sleep in your room,” Tailgate yawned, “If you don’t want to be woken up early.”

“I dunno,” Whirl said sleepily, “Isn’t it some kind of unwritten rule you share a room with your junxy? If that’s what we’re doing,” he added hastily.

“You’re overthinking it,” Tailgate said, patting Whirl on the hip and cuddling back into his plating with a sigh, “Cyclonus has the library and I have the garden. We both still have our own spaces. You value your space, you don’t have to sleep here every night. That’s not a rule.”

“Huh,” said Whirl, thoughtfully, “Maybe tomorrow night. I’m comfy now.”

“Good, because you’re my pillow,” said Tailgate, speaking directly into his stomach.

* * *

Whirl nursed another mysterious concoction, a sweet tasting orange coloured engex that fizzed when he stirred it. It had a particularly potent burn in his intake that wasn't altogether pleasant, but it was still free, so.

"Well?" Asked Waspinator, hopefully.

"Tastes kinda burny," Whirl commented, taking another drag.

"Yezz, izz the azzid."

Whirl paused, "What kind of acid?"

"Juzzt nitric."

Whirl squinted at him, as if trying to determine his sincerity, before deciding Waspinator didn't know how to be dishonest. 

"Don't sell this," he said, finishing off the glass.

"Aww," Waspinator moaned, his wings sinking sadly. 

Whirl pushed the glass away and laid his head down on the table, letting the room swim around him. "They're on a date night tonight. It's their anniversary."

"What?" Said Waspinator, who had turned away and wasn't paying attention, "Izz Whirl complaining about relationzzhip again?" 

"Yes."

"One zzecond," said Waspinator, before he poured a shot into a glass, set the bottle on the counter, and then ate the glass whole. "Okay, go."

"It's their anniversary!" Whirl moaned, "but not mine. We already did that one. It shouldn't bother me. It's stupid to bother me! I don't gotten be there for everything!" 

"Why are you zzo bothered, then?"

"Cuz I wanna be there and I ain't," said Whirl, grabbing the bottle and pouring himself a shot despite Waspinator's disapproving hum. "So I'm here getting slagfaced instead. You're a bartender, you think I'm an alcoholic yet?"

"Yezz."

"Well, frag you too, then," Whirl mumbled, "maybe I should open a shop."

"Wazzpinator does not think two watch zzhops in one zzity will be very zzuzzezzful."

Whirl blinked, processing slowly. "Will be very what?"

"Zzuzzezzful."

"Primus above," said Whirl, pushing himself to his elbows, "please use a synonym."

"Rezzipe for bankruptzzy, Wazzpinator zzay," said Waspinator, "Why does Whirl not go to medical zzchool?"

Whirl blinked at him, like he'd just turned into an actual wasp. "What?"

"Everyone know about Whirl doing zzpark zzurgery," Waspinator said, pointing at him definitively, "Wazzpinator could not do thizz. Wazzpinator think Whirl zzhould be doctor."

"Huh," said Whirl, blankly, staring ahead, lost in thought.

"Oh, Windblade izz here!" Said Waspinator cheerily, skittering over the top of the bar and sending glass flying to the floor on both sides, "Hello friend Windblade!!"

"Huh," Whirl repeated, twirling his glass in his claws, "huh."

* * *

Tailgate was not blind, and it was blatantly apparent that Whirl had been stressed about _something_ for weeks, though he hadn't let on to precisely what it was. He was getting cagey and self deprecative again, making a concerning amount of casual jokes about dying and spending what was probably too much time at Maccadam's. A solution, however, was not readily apparent, since Whirl had a nasty habit of not acknowledging anything was wrong until it got to the point of yet another public breakdown over it. Which, obviously, was approaching quickly, and Tailgate was emotionally gearing up to talk his partner down from the edge again when he decided it was time to climb up to it, but for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what the problem was this time.

Usually there was some kind of obvious trigger to these predictable behaviour spirals, like when Heatwave declined his request to visit the Earth school, or when he had learned Springer sent his final message to every Wrecker, current and former, except for him. This time, it just seemed to start, out of nowhere. He could only conclude something had happened Whirl hadn't told him about, and clearly had no intention of bringing up. 

Step one was calling around to complete the morbid task of figuring out if anyone had died recently, but that turned out to be a bust. Heinrad was still outsourcing to him, he hadn't been banned from anywhere significant recently, he hadn't even gotten in trouble with the law in months. 

That was when he realized the obvious answer to his problem, and took the train into town to visit Maccadam's while Whirl was at work.

Seeing the bar so crowded in the middle of the day was sort of depressing, in a way, but it's the sort of thing Tailgate came to expect in any Cybertronian bar. That's just how things were, and probably would be for a long time. He spotted an open seat at the bar and crawled up, putting his servos on the counter.

"Hey, uh- Waspinator, right?" He asked, and the bartender turned cheerily to him, a bizarrely chipper character in this sortid soiree. 

"Hello minibot, welcome to Wazzpinator bar! What can Wazzpinator get you?"

"I actually wanted to ask you about Whirl- I know he spends a lot of time here, and he's been kind of upset lately, and I figured if he told anyone why, it was probably you."

Waspinator snapped his fingers and threw the glass he was cleaning behind him. It shattered on the floor, but the bartender completely ignored this is scuttled over to lean on the bar across from him.

"Wazzpinator know you now! Minibot is Tailgate!" Waspinator cried, "Hello friend Tailgate!" 

"Oh," said Tailgate, a little caught off guard, "uh, hey."

"Whirl izz very zzad drunk," Waspinator commented, nodding, "Wazzpinator underzztand Tailgate conzzern."

"What's up with him?" Tailgate asked, leaning forward, "What's he so worked up about?" 

"Hrrm," buzzed Waspinator, tapping his mandible with a claw, "Wazzpinator worried about breach of confidenzze."

"Wh- Waspinator, you're a bartender, not a therapist."

"Wazzpinator think occupationzz are very zzimilar."

Tailgate stared at him blankly, as if he were trying to convince himself this was a real interaction he was having.

"Oh! Wazzpinator know, hang on." Waspinator scurried over the bar, and then vanished into the crowd for a moment. When he returned, he had both servos pressed against the back of a short, brown bot with a dour expression.

"Uh," said Tailgate, when Waspinator ushered the other mech to sit next to Tailgate, and then climbed back over the bar, "Hi?"

"Do I know you?" The other mech asked, looking between Tailgate and where Waspinator had vanished to.

"I don't think so," said Tailgate, "I'm Tailgate."

The other mech's optics flickered with realization and he snorted a laugh, "Ah! Ah, okay. Right. _You're_ Tailgate. Wow, you are short."

"Uh?" 

"So," said the other mech, holding out a hand toward the empty bar. Waspinator's claw appeared and handed him a pint, then retreated back into the darkness. "You're Whirl's boyfriend. I'm Sandstorm. Nice to meet ya." 

"Sandstorm?" Tailgate repeated, squinting, "Aren't you a serial killer or something?" 

"Whirl and me used to be Wreckers at the same time before they kicked him out," Sandstorm continued, "You must have the patience of a saint."

"Uh. Wow, okay-"

"He can bitch with the best of them, let me tell you," said Sandstorm, taking a swig of engex, "he's getting all sad and depressed because he's dating a married couple." 

"Hm."

"He's all whoooo, poor me, I'm dating two people and they like each other more than me," Sandstorm said, waving his hands for dramatic effect, "I'm gonna go drink and complain to strangers all night."

"Hrrm," Tailgate hummed more firmly, already deeply troubled by this revelation. 

"Frankly, I liked him more when he used to be a mean son of a gun," Sandstorm said, tilting his glass forward in a pointed way, "He's such a sop now."

"He's not a sop for not wanting to get in fights anymore," Tailgate snapped, "You're kind of a shitty friend."

Sandstorm blinked at him. "I didn't say we were friends."

"Wow," said Tailgate, dropping off the stool, "Okay, I think I've got a clearer picture of the problem now. Thanks for your help, Sandstorm."

"Later," said Sandstorm, chugging the last of his pint. He waited until Tailgate had left before he opened a commline.

"Hey, it's me. Yeah, I'm at Maccadam's. Y'know, I just had a real interesting conversation I think you might want to hear about…"

* * *

"That's really it?" Cyclonus asked, pursing his lips together, "He's usually so much easier to read when something is under his armour like that."

"That's what I thought," sighed Tailgate. "I feel really bad now. I just thought all the attention was making him uncomfortable."

"Whirl is a difficult mech to read, even for himself," Cyclonus shook his head, patting Tailgate comfortingly on the shoulder pauldron, "All we have to do is talk to him. It will be okay."

"Yeah, you're right," Tailgate nodded, "Though, honestly, he should have been home by now. Where do you think he is?"

* * *

The younger Whirl paced back and forth in her room, furiously, passionately anxious. The sound of her pedes clacking against the metal, rhythmically, was like a drum in her audials, as she tried yet _again_ to ping her father.

"Come on, you aft, quit ignoring me!" She snapped, to no one in particular, clenching her hands into fists at her sides. "This is ridiculous!" 

"Whirl?" Asked a voice behind her with a sympathetic knock on her open door. She turned to look at Hot Shot, leaning into the frame, appearing concerned. "You okay?" 

She chewed her lip for a moment before she shook her head, "Dad's being an idiot again."

"Oh yeah?" Hot Shot prompted, taking her response as an invitation to come all the way in the room, "What's up?"

"Cyclonus just called and asked me if I've heard from him. Apparently he's having another meltdown and they haven't seen him in a couple days."

"A couple of days?" Hot Shot repeated, alarmed, "Do you think he's okay?"

"I mean, physically, yeah, he can take care of himself, and I think if he got himself in any trouble or something I would have heard about it- he's not really like, adept at staying under the radar. He's probably just like… in a motel somewhere wallowing in self pity."

"Wow," said Hot Shot, "That must be really hard for you."

"I mean," she sighed, "yeah, but… he's still like, better, in a way, than he used to be. I've heard stories from like, before I was a sparkling, about how everyone thought he would eventually defect from the Autobots, or how he tried to kill the old leader of the Wreckers, or just… people say he used to be as likely to shoot you as buy you a drink. And then when I was growing up he was still like, on a hairpin trigger. All it took was one thing, and he'd just snap. It's like he had no idea how to be angry sometimes."

"Did he ever get angry with you like that?" Hot Shot asked, leaning back against a table with his hands, optics shining with concern. 

"...No," she sighed, raising a servo over where she imagined her spark would be, fingers clenching at something she couldn't feel, "Which is why it always hurt to hear people say stuff like that. I'd _see_ him do that stuff, like, someone would say something to him and he'd just lose it and get in a fight, but when he was with me, he was just… he was my _dad_ , you know. It's weird that the same mech that used to sing me to sleep is apparently pretty well known for ripping people's arms off." She frowned, "These days I kinda wish he would rip someone's arms off again. Now whenever something bothers him, it's like he doesn't even remember how to get angrily properly. He just gets so sad."

"I don't know what it's like to have a dad," Hot Shot said, "I was forged, you know, so it's hard for me to imagine. But it seems like it's really stressful."

"It's hard to care about people," she lamented softly, "when they hurt, you hurt, and if you don't know how to help them, it hurts worse."

"Is it like… I mean, is it worth it, then, if it's so much trouble?" he asked, honestly.

Whirl's optics softened, "It's always worth it to care about people. We all need eachother. Nobody makes it in the world on their own." 

Just then, her commline rang.

"Dad?!" She answered, quickly, spinning around.

"Hey there, Whirlygirl. Sorry to worry you so much. Had my commsystem offline."

"Yeah, obviously!" She cried, "where are you? Are you okay? Cyclonus and Tailgate are worried sick!"

"Yeah," The older Whirl mumbled, uncomfortably, "Uh, that's my bad."

"Where are you?" She repeated.

"Oh, uh, I mean, I'm good."

"Okay, but, where are you?" She asked, starting to get worried.

"I, uh. I really can't say."

"Dad, you're scaring me."

"Uh," he said, as if he was really fighting with himself to finish the thought, "Listen, kiddo, it don't really matter. All that matters is you know I love you, right? Like more than anything, yeah?"

"Dad, what's wrong?" 

"Alright, alright, Primus! Let me finish talking to my fragging kid!" He yelled, away to someone off the line, "I gotta go. Good luck with school, buckaroo. I'm sorry I never got to see it, but, I'm proud of you. I've _always_ been proud of you. G'bye, Whirlygirl."

"Dad?!" She yelled, but the line was already dead. She felt her internals spinning wildly, her hands shaking, and she spun on her pedes. Hot shot was staring at her with wide optics. 

"Hot Shot," she said, trembling, and she knew she was getting fuzzy, "I need your help."

* * *

"Heinrad said he went out yesterday to do a pickup and never came back," said Cyclonus over the commline, "That must have been when it happened. He could be virtually anywhere by now." 

"Thunderclash is already talking to the dockmaster," said Rodimus, "if they're off world, we'll find out."

"Thank you, Rodimus," said Cyclonus.

"Absolutely. Over and out."

"Brainstorm?" Cyclonus asked, flipped channels.

"I mean, I'm doing my best to trace his commline, and I am a genius, but that's just not a thing that's made to be traceable," Brainstorm launched into, "I'm saying obviously I can do it, but give me a little more time."

"Ugh," grunted Cyclonus, "Why must he have so many enemies? I can't even begin a list of potential suspects."

"Well, most people who _really_ wanted to kill him are already dead," Brainstorm posited, "Rotorstorm and Roadbuster are both dead, Impactor is super duper dead-" 

"Hrrm," Cyclonus wondered, running a clawed hand over his helm, "I don't get the feeling any of the Wreckers ever forgave him for his attempt to euthanize Springer- are there any left? Arcee seems unlikely to preoccupy herself with Whirl, though, I'm not sure she's… _officially_ a Wrecker, anyway." 

"Uh, hm," said Brainstorm, "from his day? Perceptor, obviously, uh, Valve, but he's a Decepticon now, there's Sandstorm-"

"Wait, I know that name."

"Valve?"

"No, Sandstorm. Tailgate spoke to him the day Whirl didn't come home."

"Isn't he a serial killer or something?" Brainstorm asked.

"Slag," Cyclonus swore, unbecomingly.

* * *

The moment Whirl burst through the spacebridge in her alt mode she had set her comm unit to a three second pingback, discarding non-pickups. Her altmode felt difficult to contain as she flew straight through the hangar and passed the operators into the street, panicked like she never had been in her life. For every dumb thing he had ever done, every awful situation he got himself into, he had never called her to say _goodbye._

What kind of stupid slagger would kidnap _Whirl_ , notorious for being the Autobot twice voted most likely to defect, for starting the war, for being out of his slagging mind obsessed with violence?

Somebody who knew he hadn't been himself for awhile, she thought ruefully. Someone who had been waiting for an opportunity, perhaps. 

Part of her was surprised to see Cyclonus when she burst through the door’s of Waspinator’s Maccadam’s, but part of her wasn’t at all. He had that sword he carried with him everywhere pressed very dangerously up against the throat of a Cybe she didn’t recognize, and based on the tenseness of the crowd in the bar and the plethora of raised weapons, she’d walked into a fairly precarious situation.

“Go home, Whirl,” said Cyclonus, without looking at her.

“Where is he?” Whirl asked, ignoring him.

“I genuinely don’t understand why you think I would know!” the mech Cyclonus was accosting spat, “I barely know him! We’re just drinking buddies!”

“Oh, I know all about you and your _drinking buddies_ , Sandstorm, you and Gutcruncher seemed like you were very close before you murdered _him_ ,” Cyclonus hissed, his sword unmoving, “I am deeply aware of what you are capable of, and so is everyone else on Cybertron.”

“Oh, don’t act like you give a frag about _Gutcruncher_ ,” Sandstorm rolled his eyes, “Nobody misses anybody I killed.”

“ _Whirl_ will be missed, no matter what you have convinced yourself. If you do not tell me what you’ve done with him, I swear that I will-”

Whirl didn’t let bother letting him finish. Between one word and the next she had stripped her form to a near liquid and rushed him like a wave, striking him up into the ceiling and letting him drop again, taking back her shape in time to stand on his chest.

“I swear,” she hissed, “I will _eat_ you down to rossum’s trinity, and _leave_ you like that, a brain module that can think but not speak, a spark that can feel but not touch, a t-cog that can shift but not transform. I will leave you in _agony_ no other life form could. _Where is my father._ ”

“Jesus Christ,” Sandstorm spat, a bizarre human exclamation, “I swear, I _swear_ I don’t know! I’ve been here all day, just ask Waspinator!”

Whirl glared at him, her rotors spinning with unrestrainable anger, then snapped her optics to Waspinator, who nodded. She surveyed the room quickly, distrusting, unsure where to allocate her fear and fury to get results.

Someone in the back was smiling.

“What’s so funny?” she asked, looking at him. He quickly dropped his smile and tried to look innocent.

“Nothin’,” the stranger said. She narrowed her optics at him.

“That’s Sparkstalker,” Sandstorm said, and she looked back down at him beneath her pedes, “I tried to frame him for murder once. Of course he’s happy to see me get my headlights knocked out for something _I_ didn’t do.”

“Yeah,” she said, slowly, “I bet he _would_ be pretty happy about that, huh.”

“Not _that_ happ-” he started, but she hit him hard and knocked him over. She distantly thought someone might have shot her when she did, but her form was too fuzzy right now for it to do anything but pass right through.

“You don’t pass a vibe check,” Whirl said to him.

“What the frag is a _vibe check?!_ ”

“It’s a human thing,” she snapped, “It means you _stink_.”

“What the f- you literally have _nothing_ to implicate me in this but that _he_ knows I don’t like him!”

“Vibe check,” she said, turning of her arms into an oversized scraplet mouth.

“Primus- Okay, okay, yes, okay- It’s just _Whirl_ , I didn’t think anyone would even _give_ a scrap-” Sparkstalker babbled, covering his face, “I didn’t do anything, I just called Valve and told him where he spends his time these days!”

Whirl stopped and stared at him. “There’s a person out there named Valve? Like, that’s his actual name?”

“Yeah, he doesn’t get out much.”

"Primus," Whirl swore, "Where is he?" 

"I dunno, all I know is he's been itching to take out Whirl and Kroma for like, ever! That's it. That's all I got."

"Kroma is dead," said Cyclonus.

"Since when is Kroma dead?" asked Sparkstalker.

"Whirl said he killed him ages ago, in Petrohex."

"If he did, I ain't hear about it. He must not have told anyone. Back then folk gave a shit if you murdered someone," Sandstorm interjected. 

Whirl cut him a flare and he raised his servos in apology.

"You think maybe he thinks Whirl knows where Kroma is, then?" Whirl asked, looking at Cyclonus. 

"If Whirl is feeling particularly motivated towards self preservation, I suspect that's what he'll tell him. Let's go," he said, holstering his blade. Whirl stood up, and no one stopped them on the way out. 

Tailgate was waiting anxiously outside for them, and wordlessly clambered into Cyclonus's cockpit as they took off for Petrohex. 

"Who is Valve and _why_ does he want to kill Whirl?!" Tailgate cried, exasperated as soon as they were in the air.

"Valve is one of the original Wreckers," Cyclonus explained, "He _strongly_ opposed Whirl becoming one. When the functionists sent Kroma to liberate Whirl from prison for beating Megatron, they killed Springarm and Wheelarch- who happened to be Valve's sparkbrothers."

"He's held that grudge _this long_?!"

"Well, he felt passionately enough about it that he defected to the Decepticons when his complaints went ignored, so, I would say yes."

"None of you pre-war mech's know how to be normal," Whirl muttered under her breath. 

"If he is in Petrohex and we can just get _close_ enough, short wave comms should connect," Cyclonus said, pointedly ignoring her, "we will split up and search the city."

"Gotcha." 

They split before they reached Petrohex, starting from opposite sides and working their way inward. Whirl wondered if they were even _in_ Petrohex, or if they were just chasing smoketrails. Maybe it had been Sandstorm all along. Maybe it was already too late.

Her comm fizzled with static and she had to flip into her root mode and land with a skid on her pedes as it crackled back to static and she ran back the way she had come, searching for the signal again.

Cold, cold… warm! Her comm came back to life with short wave static, and she held her vents closed in fear, silently requesting a connection without speaking. Was he _really_ being held? _Her_ dad? 

"Like I said, I dunno, it's been like four million years and the whole dang planet has nearly been remade in that time," her father's voice said, as he silently turned on his short wave unit access, "Fragger could be anywhere down here."

Down, down- she had one servo over her audials, running through the street, shoving people out of the way as she searched for where the signal was strongest. 

"Nah, I _told_ you," he continued, growing louder, "I tossed him in an old oil drum! It could be literally any of these things."

Oil drum- she spun around, and saw a warehouse, decrepit with age in the outskirts here, the kind that went down, _deep_ down, into the lower levels.

Whirl pinged Cyclonus her location, stood on the sidewalk, released her shape, and _ate_ her way down.

The room she dropped into was deep and wide, some ancient, abandoned pre-war storage facility that reeked of old crude oil and rust. The expressions on the face of the two mech's that she had landed in front of ranged from confusion to even more confusion, but she was in far too foul a mood to handle this right now.

"What in Primus name-" was all the unfamiliar black and purple mech in front of her got out before she slammed into him, and everything went red.

* * *

"Do you think we're too late?" Tailgate fretted, visor flared. 

"Don't flirt with the unthinkable until it is unavoidable," Cyclonus said, touching down and transforming, setting his Conjunx on the ground in front of the hole in the sidewalk. "Though, I think it will be… messy."

Cyclonus landed with a thump downstairs, and wasn’t entirely _surprised_ to find their target being devoured by a red wave of fury. He shook away flashbacks to Getaway and turned to look at Whirl, who was watching with visible concern.

“Are you alright?” Cyclonus asked.

“Uh,” said Whirl, looking up, “Yeah, I guess.” His claws were behind his back, in stasis cuffs, and he snapped them cooly, rubbing his wrists below his arm rotors self consciously.

Cyclonus looked up and caught Tailgate before he hit the ground as he followed them down.

“Is she alright?” Tailgate asked, gesturing at the red mass that was quickly finishing its meal.

“No,” said Whirl, “When she swarms like that her nanites are too scrambled to communicate properly. She probably doesn’t remember who she is.”

“That’s a big problem,” Tailgate understated, as the red wave reared up and made a noise of shrieking metal, throwing itself at the piles of oil drums, and quickly began devouring everything in sight. 

“Whirlygirl, calm down!” Whirl hollered, leaving them to approach the scraplet swarm, both claws raised in an attempt at consolation, “It’s okay, kid, you did it! You’re good now!”

The swarm shrieked again and lashed out with a tendril of red nanites, slamming Whirl off his pedes and throwing him across the room.

“Whirl!” Tailgate yelled, chasing after him, “Whirl, Whirl, are you alright?!”

“Ugh-” Whirl groaned, sitting up and grabbing at the hole in his cockpit, clipping an exposed fuel line closed before it could bleed him out, “Just a mesh wound.”

“Has she done this before?” Cyclonus called back, as the swarm rolled over again with renewed fury, losing interest in the barrels.

“She used to swarm a lot when she was a tyke, but she ain’t never been _this_ mad,” Whirl gasped, struggling back to his pedes.

“Whirl!” Cyclonus said, turning back to the furious swarm, “It’s alright! You’ve succeeded!”

The swarm shrieked again.

“Be careful, Cyclonus!” Tailgate called. 

“I am not afraid of little Whirl,” Cyclonus said, holding eye contact with the swarm as it regarded him, “I could not be.” Cyclonus reached forward toward the writhing wave of teeth and fury, and lost his servo for his effort the moment he touched it. He resisted the urge to flinch and held his ground. “She is only a child.”

The wave rolled, slowing, gently, before it finally wavered, shimmered, and reverted to the familiar little blue frame that had come to be a common sight in their home. She faltered, then fell, optics shuttered. Cyclonus caught her, and pulled her up to carry her unconscious form back to his partners. Whirl was quick to take her from him and check her vitals the way Brainstorm had taught him a plethora of cycles ago.

“She’s just tuckered herself out, I think,” Whirl said after a moment, with a sigh of relief.

“Whirl, your fuel line, for Primus sake-” Tailgate clambered up the taller mech onto his shoulders and grabbed the exposed line he had let go of when he picked up his daughter. 

“What?” Whirl said, looking at the line as if he’d completely forgotten about it, “Oh, yeah, right, that.”

“You have to take better care of yourself,” Tailgate fretted, snapping his right arm into a welder and leaning forward to cauterize the fuel line.

“Right,” said Whirl, absently, staring down at the girl in his arms, distracted and concerned.

“Whirl,” said Cyclonus, putting his remaining servo on Whirl’s shoulder, “Have you been hurt?”

“No,” he responded, “I’m fine.”

“I didn’t think I would see the day you would let someone kidnap you without ripping three or four limbs off,” Cyclonus commented.

“Yeah, well,” said Whirl, not breaking his gaze, “I ain’t interested in gettin’ violent no more.”

“I think perhaps you’ve taken this new nonviolent mentality a bit far,” Cyclonus said, as gently as he felt he could.

“Yeah, well,” Whirl repeated, “It ain’t like he didn’t have the moral highground.”

“Moral highgr- he was going to _kill_ you!” Tailgate cried, grabbing Whirl’s helm and spinning it up to face him, “Tell me you weren’t just going to _let_ him without even _fighting back!_ ”

“I’da been just as pissed as him if he’d gotten _my_ sparkbrothers killed!” Whirl snapped, shaking Tailgate’s servos from his helm, “It ain’t fair to deny him his own righteous vengeance, ‘n all that.”

“That doesn’t sound like my Whirl at all,” Tailgate said, voice cracking, “My Whirlibird would kick the aft of _anybody_ who tried to take him away from me.”

Whirl cast his optic away, shoulders raised, but he didn’t move to shake Tailgate off. 

“Well. Maybe you don’t know me so good. Can we get outta here? I wanna take her home,” Whirl said, stubbornly, looking back at the motionless bundle he was holding.

Tailgate moved to speak, but Cyclonus cast him a knowing glance and he stopped. “Of course. Let’s head back to the surface and I’ll call off the cavalry.”

“Cavalry?” 

“Yes, Cavalry. _Everyone_ is looking for you, Whirl. Brainstorm, Rodimus, Anode, Nautica- I called anyone who’s number I had. Everyone is worried.”

“...Right,” said Whirl, shifting his daughter as he moved to transform.

* * *

Whirl finished tucking little Whirl into his berth, shutting off the light and closing the door. He leaned back against the wall with a deep sigh.

“She still out?” Tailgate asked. 

“She always does this when she freaks,” Whirl said, lowering the volume on his vocoder, “It really takes it outta her.”

“Is she gonna be alright?”

“She’ll be alright,” Whirl confirmed, sliding down to sit on the floor, “She’s a tough little thing.”

“What about you?” Tailgate asked, sitting down beside him on the floor, “Are you gonna be alright?”

Whirl was silent. Downstairs, they could distantly hear Cyclonus on the commline talking to Windblade about the state of destruction they’d left behind in their wake.

“You were, weren’t you?” Tailgate asked, when he didn’t get another response, “You were gonna let him kill you.”

Whirl tilted his helm away, staring at the floor. “...Yeah.”

He tried not to react with Tailgate flinched, leaning closer as if he were afraid the larger mech might curl up and vanish at any moment. “You’ve been depressed again lately. I wish you had talked to me.”

“Sorry,” Whirl mumbled.

“Don’t you think we’d miss you? Me, and Cyclonus, and little Whirl- how come we keep coming back here, to you feeling worthless? What am I doing wrong? Do I just not tell you enough how much I love you?” Tailgate pleaded, and Whirl pulled his arms in, shrinking into his frame and further ducking his helm.

“It ain’t you, legs,” Whirl sighed, “It’s just me. Somethin’ that don’t work right, you know.”

“Please stop drinking so much,” Tailgate whispered, “Please tell me you’ll start seeing a real therapist, after this.”

Whirl pulled up his knees and rested his arms on them, setting his helm on top. “Yeah. Alright.”

“I wouldn’t choose him over you, you know. I don’t love you less.”

Whirl didn’t respond.

Tailgate turned and reached up for Whirl’s helm with needy little servos. “Come here. Let me kiss you.”

Whirl was never particularly very good at denying Tailgate anything he asked for, and let the minibot hold his helm in his servos, pressing his faceplate to the front of Whirl’s helm casing.

“Please let me keep you, Whirl. You mean too much to me.”

“...I’ll do better,” Whirl sighed, letting his shoulders go slack. They both looked up when they heard Cyclonus on the stairs.

“Windblade said not to worry about it,” he said as he entered the hallway, “The property doesn’t have a surviving owner to offend.”

“That’s good,” said Tailgate, and Cyclonus offered Whirl his one remaining servo to help him stand.

“Come, we should take you in for repairs,” he said, but Whirl didn’t make a move to rise. After a moment, Cyclonus joined him on the floor, folding his legs instead.

“I _am_ sorry,” Whirl said, “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble.”

“I know,” Cyclonus told him, “Come here.”

Whirl didn’t argue and crawled into Cyclonus’s lap as he was told.

“Please treat yourself more kindly,” Cyclonus continued, “If not for yourself yet, then because you are important to me.”

“Okay.”

Tailgate scooted across the floor and folded his arms across Whirl’s crossed legs, settling his chin on them and looking up at Whirl through his visor.

“Hey,” he said, “I just thought of something.”

“Oh yeah?” prompted Whirl, “What’s that?” 

“Act of Intimacy is like, everyday. Act of Disclosure is like, when you told us about Kroma.”

“What?” asked Whirl, pulling his helm back.

“Ah, I see what you’re getting at,” said Cyclonus, “Act of Profferance is certainly your delightful anniversary gifts.”

“And today was _definitely_ an Act of Devotion!” Tailgate exclaimed, holding up four fingers to represent four completed Acts.

“Hang on,” said Whirl, waving his claws, “Slow down, wait, wait. That’s not. I mean you _can’t_ just-”

“How come?” Tailgate asked. “Do you not want to?”

“No, I didn’t- I mean, of _course_ I do, but- but I mean-”

“But what?” asked Cyclonus, “I certainly like the idea of making it official- but only if you want to.”

“Well, I- but I mean, I-” Whirl stammered, “That’s too much. I can’t.”

“Too much for you?” asked Cyclonus, “Or too much from us?’

“It-” Whirl shook his head, “That’s real hard to undo, is all, if you change your mind later. You don’t gotta commit to that just cuz you’re worried about me.”

“That’s not why I want to,” Tailgate shook his head, “I want to because I _love_ you. And I want to keep you.”

“And I have it on quite good authority we will not be changing our minds,” Cyclonus said, tightening his warm grip around Whirl’s frame.

“I…” Whirl started, “...Y… yeah, okay, yeah. I would- yeah. I want that.”

“Conjunx it is, then,” Tailgate said softly, leaning up to take Whirl’s helm in his servos again.

“Our wonderful Conjunx,” Cyclonus added, pressing a soft kiss to the back of Whirl’s head.

“Conjunx,” repeated Whirl, his voice soft and low, “ _my_ Conjunx.”


End file.
